Red, Blue, Green, Yellow
by Awesomelock
Summary: Sherlock passes out and John finds him. Sherlock is comforted after a nightmare. Sherlock gets burnt. Sherlock is attacked and John deals with the aftermath. Sherlock slips with a knife and needs a certain doctors help. Possibly creepy. Sherlock needs help after falling in a river. Very definite, prominent threat of being creepy.
1. Red

A/N- I know that red, blue, green and yellow are stages of bruising (green?), but seriously, I'm not going to write loads of chapters about a bruise. Just, you know, in case anyone thought I was going to. Not that there won't be bruising- but, y-you know? *Becomes increasingly flustered*

* * *

Chapter 1- RED

Sherlock had decided that no matter how hard it may seem to hide from your past, it's all ways harder to hide from the future.

Take for instance the eye ball that had rolled under the cooker several days before hand- he was in complete denial that particular incident caused the fly issue in the kitchen. And that was easy enough.

But what Sherlock didn't know at the time was that Mycroft had caught it on tape and was about to send it to John, and so, when the time came, Sherlock couldn't hide from John confronting him.

Damn Mycroft, damn him to hell.

"Sherlock? We're out of milk- and I think you owe me." John told Sherlock as both their thoughts focused on the image of John's ruined pain au chocolate- infested with flies.

'_Well maybe if you'd put it in the fridge-'_

_'It was in the fridge!'_

That was an argument Sherlock would never forget.

"And eat something before you go."

"No."

"Yes."

"No." Sherlock replied harshly as if to put his point across with more strength.

"Sherlock." John stopped and made eye contact with him.

"Fine!" Sherlock replied, grabbing a strange red thing from next to the toaster- a cherry he assumed, before throwing it into his mouth like cartoon characters eating popcorn.

"Thank you."

Sherlock chocked on the red thing whilst resisting the urge to make a noise and hold his hand to his throat. Panic began to spread over him until finally it dislodged its self and slipped its way down his throat.

"It's a start." John added, blissfully unaware that Sherlock had been chocking on whatever it was that he'd eaten.

* * *

7:04-Sherlock went out to buy milk.

The busy Tesco's was full of push chairs and old people. The only milk left was semi-skimmed. What was the lesser of the two evils? No milk or semi-skimmed milk?

* * *

7:14- Sherlock left the shop without milk. The nearest little shop was a two minute walk away. After much weighing up of pro's and con's in his mind, he decided they really didn't need milk anyway. He'd tried.

Repeatedly people had told him that 'it's the thought that counts' but this isn't true because if you think about slowing down your car to not run over a child, but don't do it, you haven't done anything good.

But John didn't think like that and therefore Sherlock felt relatively safe as he stalked back in the direction of 221B.

* * *

7:15- Sherlock passed out.

* * *

His first thought after said passing out was that he knew swallowing that fish was a bad idea, even if had been vital for that case.

He wasn't entirely sure that he'd actually passed out, but the fact that one moment his face was firmly not on the pavement, then the next was good friends with moss growing in the cracks- it seemed to suggest that he had.

Maybe it wasn't the fish he'd swallowed, he decided, as the contents of his stomach containing something vaguely fish shaped lay next to him. When had that happened?

His was mid-way through formulating the answer when his thoughts went very slow.

* * *

He didn't remember passing out a second time, but he did.

* * *

7:34 Sherlock had been out half an hour- which sounded okay, but really, it wasn't. There were many reasons John wasn't happy- one of them being that he couldn't drink his tea without Sherlock returning with skimmed milk.

The shop was literally no time at all away, and if Sherlock had decided to go to a crime scene or something John might as well go and buy his own milk.

* * *

Sherlock lay there not really thinking about anything. There was a vague nagging feeling at the back of his mind telling him that he was lying unconscious in the freezing cold down a narrow path that closely resembled an alley.

But all he could think was that all he'd gone out to get was some bloody milk. Blood and milk. Both contain iron.

…makes your bones grow stronger.

Does milk make you grow taller? Then why was John so short? Sherlock didn't know- he'd long since deleted it from his mind palace. It was irrelevant.

Irrelevant. _Irrelevant… _Now that was a funny word.

* * *

7:39 John was taking his usual root down some sort of 'enclosed path' type thing. A bin bag lay in the middle- its outline lit up by light filtering through poorly designed curtains.

Honestly it looked like they had a body in there. Wouldn't Sherlock like that? A body in a bin bag. Though John was certain they'd solved that one last week.

John felt rather mean when he realised it was a person. _Probably homeless._

Then he felt slightly panicked when he noticed that he knew that homeless person, and that they weren't homeless at all.

* * *

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed; jogging over to the consulting detective. He realised that he'd been completely useless unless he switched to 'Doctor mode'.

…

"Sherlock, can you hear me?" John asked as he crouched down next to his friend and removed his special fancy gloves that meant he could use a touch screen iPod whilst wearing them.

Sherlock let out a slightly pained moan as John began to flop and arrange the sociopath into some sort of bent position in which less could go wrong medically.

_999_

* * *

"Sherlock!"

Oh shut up John.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?"

Shut up John.

Beep-beep-beep… "Hello? I need an ambulance-"

Sherlock stopped listening. Dull.

* * *

7:42: Sherlock stopped breathing. Dull.

* * *

A/N- Sorry it's short and sorry for the cliff hanger! Anyway, I've got all the chapters planned out, but ideas are nice! ^^ (Next colour: Blue= Sherlock has a nightmare or something) - Not much of a plan. Thanks for reading :D


	2. Red part 2

A/N- Sorry for the late update. Also, I regret making this into two chapters. I'd edit the first chapter but then no would realise I'd updated it. Or would they? Decisions- decisions!

* * *

"Sherlock, oh god. Jesus. Sherlock!"

John was an army doctor for god sake! He told himself to calm down. Keep a grip.

But oh god he wasn't breathing and hewasdyingandohmygodohmygod-!

He worked best under pressure- that was what he was, a doctor. He was calm, controlled and quick thinking. Not a slobbering, hyperventilating mess passed out on the pavement whilst his friend died.

Something kicked in- some sort of horror or happiness or both- his mind went almost blank. Almost blank because of that thought lingering at the back of his mind that dinner must have been burning.

Slowly. Deep calm breath. That's it: in, out, in…out.

Sherlock was as pale as Moriarty's pasty complexion. Oh Christ, he was dead. Breathe! In, out, in, out, in out, in-out, inout, in… outoutoutout.

Before he was entirely sure what was going on his fist landed on Sherlock's rib cage followed by a loud crunch. That was for randomly dying.

The rest was a blur of sorts.

* * *

Water rushed into his lungs and his head was on fire. And who'd put all that dry mud down his throat? Sherlock groaned.

Would someone shut up that god damn siren? And John, for god sakes, what we he doing?

Oh. _Oh. _

* * *

Everything was very hazy- cold hazy, like when you pass out. The world around him rushed by. What were they? Just another acorn grave in the middle of a forest- why would people stop and bother?

He felt nothing except cold hard practise and routine, almost a normal drill, passing through his head.

He'd been in that position one too many times and too many times had everything crashed and burnt around him- many times too literally for his likings.

But then again, he still went through a watery rainbow of panic, then uselessness, then worthlessness then depression.

* * *

Sherlock, similarly, felt panicked, then useless, then nothing, then smug. That would be the last time John complained about the milk.

* * *

7:48, John leant back into the puddle of vomit as the paramedics approached. Sherlock was kind of breathing, kind of wheezing and kind of dead. Mostly dead.

Someone rushed over to John waving a blanket trying to comfort him with bull shit. He waved them off. No, he just needed some air, _thank you very much._

Everyone was crowding around Sherlock and himself far too much, even if there were only three people, John was certain there were six people anyway.

3 solid people and 3 see through clones.

* * *

7:49, John passes out.

* * *

8:03 AM- THE NEXT DAY

Sherlock's eyes flicked open- they were a dull grey, sickly- no longer blue. His eyes blinked shut and then half open again.

"John?" He gurgled.

"Sherlock!" John greeted as though surprised and relieved- even if he had been told that Sherlock would wake soon and be just fine. Or as fine as could be expected.

John expected Sherlock to be dead.

"'m not dead." His lips curled at the edge. "Like you expected."

"Yes, yes I did." He paused, then looked at Sherlock.

The both sat in silence, both enjoying the fact that neither one of them was talking.

* * *

"Poison?" John shouted a while later after having just walked in from discussing Sherlock with some doctor with some name in some fancy suit. Lucky him. He could hold up a job. He spoke with fake anger- like a mum telling their child off for… eating a poisoned cherry after being forced to eat before going out to buy a pint of milk. "You poisoned a cherry- _and then ate it?_"

Sherlock murmured something along the lines of 'you told me to.'

"If I told you to lie across the M1, would you do it?"

A small, pitiful and stubborn nod came from the consulting idiot, followed by a request for water.

"2 broken ribs, minor concussion, _and_ you poisoned yourself. Worried the hell out of me."

Sherlock ignored John and attempted to swallow some saliva to see what his throat felt like.

"Who poured sand down my throat?"

"More like what poured up your throat- my coat's ruined." John joked. It was best to lighten the atmosphere before Mycroft came marching in completely unnecessarily to stir everything up and prolong recovery time. "Just… Don't do that again."

* * *

Sherlock was making no promises.


	3. Blue

Chapter 2- Blue

A/N- I hope I made it clear enough that these are all random Sherlock one shots and not the same story just very long. Sorry if I didn't. And sorry the chapters are all so short. And THANK YOU FOR REVIEWING. I LOVE YOU. Ahem, sorry.

Anyway, about this chapter, things happen the way they do because when I'm only half awake I make these strange connections that my thoughts focus on. I suppose that's just called being wierd, but I assumed everyone does it.

* * *

"Sorry boys! I'm so-ooo changeable! But to be fair, it is my only weakness."

Even powers of great deduction couldn't actually place exactly was wrong about the scene- like why he couldn't actually feel the gun in his hands, why the water had frozen still and was floating towards the ceiling in small droplets slowly. Blue- they were all blue. Every last water droplet- blue.

Or clear and reflecting the blue tiles.

"You can't be allowed to continue, you just can't."

John was there, but something wasn't quite right about him- maybe the fact that his face was so neutral that adding it to hydrochloric acid would turn it to a PH of 7? Which didn't even make sense. Or how his eyes were so hollow it could solve the world waste problem?

"I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mi-inds."

Why wouldn't he shut up and let Sherlock think? Why was everything so blue?

Who exactly decided that you can't turn colours off? Sherlock would have turned the blue off. Shouldn't he be doing something? He wasn't sure- maybe if everything weren't so damningly blue he'd be able to think straight.

Yes- Jim Moriarty was stood in front of him wielding the power of… everything. Even he wouldn't be able to turn the blue off.

Sherlock could feel his heart beating, and could hear it. Something wasn't quite right about it. Like it was too fast? Was it too fast or was it just blue? If his heart were blue it would be made of ice and that would make him Mycroft, so his heart couldn't have been blue.

But ice isn't blue.

"As long as I'm alive- you can save your friends."

Wasn't that from somewhere else?

"Thank you, bless you."

Sherlock vaguely registered his arm lowering down to point at a bomb jacket of sorts lying innocently of a pool side floor. That was a strange place to keep a bomb.

In a pool. A poo-ool. A pooooooool.

"Well good luck with that." Sherlock's felt _everything _in a bang and then nothing. Fear, pain, that nagging feeling of 'I'm forgetting something', sickness, hate, love, loss, regretful- _everything._ But particularly fear and pain and a worrying heartbeat.

And John was screaming for some reason. Probably because he was going to die in all that blue fire coming out of the blue water made of blue air. And the bubbles on his skin hissing and popping as he slowly melted.

* * *

It wasn't John screaming.

* * *

"Sherlock?" Came a rather panicked voice. John's panicked voice.

* * *

Didn't John realise he was dead?

* * *

"John!" Sherlock shouted as he twisted beneath the covers and successfully hit at John from where he lay in the bed- John was just glad that he'd finally woken. His looked far warmer then he should have done considering the frost outside.

Sherlock was focussing on the blue and red dots behind his eye lids. Connotations of red happen to be blood. And when blue and blood mix that makes an alliteration. Irrelevant- delete.

"Sherlock." John replied in a calm and comforting way as Sherlock began to relax before John began to whisper what Sherlock would consider to be meaningless verbal comfort. "Shh."

"Please stop telling me to 'shh', it's not a word." John grew silent at Sherlock's demands. "I'll be as loud as I like." Sherlock added after clearing his throat so his voice would sound strong. Like a deep blue.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Sherlock said something but John couldn't quite make out what it was he said.

"Sorry?"

"No." Sherlock repeated as if that was what he'd said in the first place. John said nothing more of it before offering a cup of tea to Sherlock before Sherlock hastily agreed to the tea.

* * *

"Here." John offered out a cup of tea to Sherlock who sat on the sofa. The lights were off- only the street lights outside the windows illuminated the room.

Sherlock took the tea before John leant over to flick on a side light. His eyes began to adjust- he turned back to the chair to sit.

A loud smashing noise emanated through the room- John almost literally jumped into the air. He turned around whilst simultaneously stepping on something very sharp causing himself to lift his foot off the ground in shock as fast as it had gone down.

"Sherlock?"

His eyes focused on Sherlock's pale, almost trembling, haunted face before trailing down to the floor where an expensive blue mug lay in 53 blue and white pieces mixed in with spilt, boiling tea.

Perhaps it was just his sleep deprived mind causing him to fall into the pit of mindless, spiralling insanity or maybe the drugs had finally gotten to him.

"Blue?" Sherlock practically shouted.

"_Blue?_" John repeated as he wondered if he was on the same page as Sherlock. Did he just smash a mug because it was blue? John found it difficult to hide the anger undertones in his voice.

"Were you trying to kill me?" Sherlock said accusingly then paused as John slumped down onto a chair and lifted his foot up to examine it. "Trying to poison me with that _innocent_ looking mug?" If John didn't know better he'd have said that he'd have heard murderous undertones in Sherlock's voice.

"Sherlock- are you feeling okay?" John asked with a certain degree of worry. "Have you taken anything?"

"No." Then John breathed in. It had just occurred to him what may have been the problem.

"He's dead- you know." John replied in sudden understanding before standing to move closer to Sherlock- damn the consequences of mug-in-foot. He gasped as a small shard sunk into his foot before sitting next to Sherlock on the sofa. "He's defiantly dead, Sherlock." John repeated again.

"He's dead, and it's ridiculous. I can reason with myself but he still… he…" Sherlock broke off. He was sounding like a common-garden person.

"Shh… It's okay." John replied as he wondered if he should hug the man or not. If it was his sister, or his Mother, or even his father, but Sherlock? He was a different man altogether. Wonderfully human, very human, in fact, but different.

John was certain he heard a sniffing noise come from the detective, which was the straw that broke the camel's back for the Army Doctor, who wrapped his arms around Sherlock carefully- allowing Sherlock to push back if he didn't want the comfort hug.

He didn't, instead he dug his face into Johns shoulder.

"I'm not crying."

"No." John replied as he gave Sherlock a comforting squeeze. "Of course not."

Sherlock slowly settled until his breathing slowed and evened. He went limp and flopped as John pushed him back onto the sofa, wondering exactly how awake the detective actually was awake during that… event.


	4. Green

5:03am- "Sherlock?" John whispered from his bedroom door after being woken in the middle of the night to the sound of what he could only describe as hammering. It had stopped the second his foot touched the ground, but he decided it was probably best to figure out exactly what had happened anyway.

"Just some minor plumbing." Sherlock replied from the sofa before suddenly putting the violin that he wasn't even playing down.

John crept out of his room and towards where Sherlock's voice was coming from. Despite only having the light filtering through the curtains, he could still make out the self-proclaimed sociopath.

He studied Sherlock, and came to the conclusion that he obviously hadn't gone to bed yet- he was still dressed in his famous purple shirt. John realised it probably wasn't that famous. But that was all he could deduct. That and he'd been up to something- his clothes were dirty.

However, upon studying the room to find everything to the most part whole and in the right place (excluding the body parts on the table), he decided that since they were both grown men he wasn't about to mother around Sherlock.

He turned back to his room.

"Be careful on the stairs."

"What? Why?"

"The third ones missing." He stared at me before going to inspect. "Look on the Brightside, we now know how the lady on the train tracks was killed." Sherlock called after Johns retreating form.

Which then paused and looked confused- even if Sherlock couldn't even see his face.

"By a train?"

"No."

"Where's the Christmas tree?"

"Somewhere around here…" Sherlock replied as he jumped up and stalked towards the corner of the room near the window where the Christmas tree void of any decorations lay in three pieces. He stood the bottom section of the tree up onto the base.

John realised something was wrong. He'd spent hours picking out a tree that wasn't in three parts the previous day.

"What…? Sherlock, that's no even our tree!"

"The previous one is… gone." Sherlock replied as he balanced the second section of the tree onto the bottom to make it look complete before screwing it on. John at that point realised it was a fake tree.

"Right, what happened here?" John put on the voice of an angry mother. And it was only a couple of seconds ago that he decided not to do that.

"I sold it."

"For what?" John was both angry and concerned.

"Money." Sherlock replied simply.

John suddenly felt a weight on his aging eyes. He was too old to be a mother. Too male. Suddenly the darkness of his bedroom looked very inviting. He muttered something about making sure Mrs Hudson didn't trip on the missing stair before sloping back to his room.

5:07am- Sherlock felt like a deer in head lights that was no longer in head lights. Or however the saying goes.

He was surprised John had dropped it just like that after all those hours of decorating the tree with that distasteful multi-coloured squashed tinsel that smelt like ginger bread man- and hadn't even asked so much as for a cup of tea!

He probably should have taken that as a warning- a storm was brewing.

9:34am- Johns bed actually felt like a marshmallow.

It light and squishy and charcoal on the outside, yet still flaming, and runny on the inside. He decided that he didn't like allusions to fire so early in the morning- it almost always was a warning for something bad- _red sky in the morning, shepherds warning_. _Burning bed in morning- Watson's warning._

He got out of bed, put on his red Christmas jumper that, despite common belief, was in fashion, and marched towards the door. Then marched back.

He had no trousers on.

9:34am- There were hundreds of hot grey bubbles floating around- violently clawing its way to the top only to then burst into a cloud of steam.

There were hundreds of different sized bubbles- each measuring at a temperature potentially painful to man.

Sherlock poured the boiling water over his experiment.

After ignoring the possibly dangerous splash back onto the kettle, he poured some water absentmindedly into a mug containing a tea bag precariously balanced on his knees.

He needed a case, he really did. Or a cigarette. Something to put him out of his pain and misery. He couldn't see why Mycroft disapproved of his smoking habit and why Donovan disapproved of his crime solving super powers, but they did.

What dull lives must they lead?

9:36- John stretched and breathed in as he attempted to do up his trousers.

He felt almost proud of himself until the button flew off.

He hadn't even put on weight- Sherlock had been purposefully shrinking John's clothes every time he was made to do the washing. How he got to the exact science so they shrunk perfectly every time, John didn't know.

But he had.

Sherlock was amazed at the amount of stuff he could get done in a minute. He'd successfully set up 5 Bunsen burner experiments, modified a sparkler and managed to make a cup of tea for himself and John- who he could hear had woken up.

Having finished those activities he stopped still.

There was nothing more to do- that was it. Not to be melodramatic- but if he died at that moment in time, he wouldn't have left anything incomplete. He realised with horror that the fact previously stated could make him more likely to die.

That would be tedious.

He jumped to his feet as though his life depended on it before purposefully grabbing John's and his tea.

"John! I've made tea." He called through to John's closed bedroom door.

"Great- thanks…" John shouted back- though careful not to be too loud and disturb Mrs Hudson. "Don't suppose you could bring it through?"

John had been struggling to find a pair of trousers that fitted, didn't have holes in and weren't dark blue. He couldn't wear dark blue. He had a dark blue jumper on.

If only he'd hurried up.

He hadn't wanted his cup of tea to go cold, even if it was probably poisoned horribly because Sherlock made it. He'd decided he really should put more trust in that man.

But with great trust comes great responsibility- and, as John found out, could put a weight on a person so heavy they trip and fall.

Stupid. Of course the step wasn't there- had his mind palace malfunctioned?

The third step is missing. _The third step is missing. _It was things like this that made him more careful in future. He had a rough childhood.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock quickly stood from where he had come to rest on the wooden floor, swaying slightly from the sheer fastness at which everything had happened, but soon recovered.

"Mind palace problems- must be because I haven't had a case." Sherlock explained, looking in childlike amazement at how the mug he was holding was perfectly intact and still looped onto his fingers.

"Did you pass out?" John began to come down the stairs; worry clearly showing.

"No-no- Stop." Sherlock stopped John, who's foot was hovering just above the missing step. Sherlock stepped forwards in a serious manner. John cocked his head on side in confusion.

"The steps missing." Sherlock reminded him. John looked down, then his shoulders relaxed slightly. At least Sherlock hadn't eaten another poisoned cherry.

"Are you okay?" John asked whilst stepping past the missing step. Sherlock muttered a yes whilst looking slightly embarrassed yet shocked.

Sherlock didn't like getting hurt- particularly in accidents where it was his own fault. Neither did the next person, but things like that made Sherlock angry- angry like a trapped animal.

Which was why he really didn't need John trying to make a fuss over him- his hand hurt where it was burnt and then twisted by the mug, his shoulder hurt where he landed on it funny, he felt embarrassed because he feel and he felt less of himself because he forgot the stair was missing.

John was following him before he knew it- into the kitchen where he'd both literally and emotionally gone to lick his wounds, which he was unable to do with John there. John the army doctor who'd seen more than just a man fall down the stairs in his time.

Sherlock hid his burning hand behind his back and tried hard to not show any signs of pain.

"Do you want a cup of tea?" John asked. He was a doctor, but there were some things that would always cure things better than he could- and that something was tea. That must have been why John had seen less dying people since he got back to the UK. Better tea.

"I've got one." Sherlock slurred- his anger increasing as John continued to pester him.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yes, John, go away." Sherlock had spoken that last part before he knew it. In fact, had John not gotten that crease in his eye brow like he always did when Sherlock upset him, Sherlock would have said he'd thought it instead.

"I was just trying to help." John said as he lifted his arms in surrender and backed away. But then again, he knew why Sherlock was acting the way he was, he'd had much experience with injuries. He knew how some men reacted.

It got too much for Sherlock who just turned around and turned the cold tap on, holding his hand and a cold mug beneath the tap as to not raise suspicion. He was just washing a mug.

"You burnt yourself." John observed from over Sherlock's shoulder. It took everything in Sherlock to not just turn around and smash the mug into John's face. No. No- he was sociopathic, not psychopathic.

Small blisters were beginning to form on Sherlock's now very red hand. He had skin like child.

John changed the temperature of the water so it was slightly colder. Sherlock reached again for the tap settings but was stopped by John.

"I'm the doctor." He said.

10:14: Sherlock had been led over to the sofa and give some pain killers for his shoulder and burns.

"This is why you shouldn't remove a stair… piece."

Sherlock said nothing. His anger had gone slightly, but that didn't mean that he wasn't still ready to burn, kill and destroy, though waved this off as perfectly normal. It was probably just a human instinct or something.

"Where'd the old tree go?" John asked after suddenly being reminded of something, or the lack of something.

"Mrs Hudson has it."

"Why?"

"Because she didn't have one."

"Oh."

"And my calculations concluded that the only way to get it out of here and downstairs was through the removal of the third step leading to your bedroom. I didn't realise the tree was so flexible."

"How did you think I got it in here in the first place?"

"That's as obvious as a lateral thinking puzzle in a cracker. You grew it in here." Sherlock replied as he stood up and wondered over to the window to look out. He raised a hand to move the curtain when he visibly winced.

"Sherlock?"

"I'm fine."

10:09- Sherlock smiled slightly- even if he couldn't play his violin as well because of the minor burns on his hand, which hurt more than they should have done, he wouldn't feel obliged to make John a cup of tea ever again. That was another job he could cross off his list.

Which was why Sherlock had a constant supply of tea at his command. John had decided Sherlock wasn't capable of making tea- which both pleased and angered Sherlock.

But it both pleased and angered John more.

A/N- I hate this chapter, but I'm super excited about next chapter (even if I haven't written it yet) so I got this one out of the way. This is the least whumpy, angsty, hurt/comforty one and will that remain this way. I might rewrite it. (Also, I always imagined as John's bedroom being at the top of some stairs, so that's why it is in this,)

Thank you to everyone who's reviewed, alerted, favourite, read or accidently clicked on this! It makes me scream and flail (In a good way). *flailes* Also, I'm really sorry if I haven't replied to anyones review, my email stopped working, and then I tried to reply, and I think some replies were sent, and then others weren't, and then my laptop turned off, and whenever I try to look at the PM (and some other stuff) the internet stops responding, so I can't see what's what. Sorry. But thank you.


	5. Yellow

_To: Sherlock_

_Message: Where are you? JW_

* * *

_To: Sherlock_

_Message: Mycroft's gone now. Happy? JW_

* * *

_To: Sherlock_

_Message: I'm not lying. He's really gone. You can come home. JW_

* * *

_To: Sherlock_

_Message: Can you pick up a Chinese? Remember the special fried rice. JW_

* * *

_To: Sherlock_

_Message: Or just ignore me._

* * *

10:49-John sat tapping his fingers. He hadn't meant to wait for Sherlock, it had just happened. The second he realised he was waiting for the consulting Bastard he got up and left to his room.

He had work in the morning.

* * *

10:50-Said consulting bastard was sat in an alley somewhere in London feeling very sorry for himself indeed. What a half-baked way to die.

* * *

11:03-John rolled over in bed. He was certain something wasn't right- perhaps it was the lack of a detective conducting life threatening activities just in the other room, or maybe it was the lack of toxic fumes flooding his lungs.

Before he knew it, he had one foot on the ground, then the other, and then his face. He was more tired than he had previously suspected. But the carpet felt so nice beneath his cheek, maybe he should stay there. It wasn't unusual that Sherlock wouldn't come home at night.

* * *

7:38am- 8hours, 48 minutes ago, Sherlock had been just dandy. 8 hours, 48 minutes later, he was much less dandy.

What an ordinary way to die. He briefly wondered if John would be disappointed, but then realised that John really wouldn't be- he was too mundane himself.

* * *

7:40am- Sherlock was not giving up the ghost. He realised this with something close to disappointed- he hated it when he wrong, but something close to being relieved.

He decided this at the approximate time when he regained consciousness fully. The sun was just rising- and as much as he hated metaphors, plants that have begun to wither rise again when the sun comes out.

* * *

7:41am- John stirred his perished breakfast around in the bowl. He didn't know when it had gone off, but after taking the first bite, he realised even despite the amount of preservers they'd pumped into it, his cereal was most definitely mortal.

He slipped his jacket and coat on. An egg and bacon Mcmuffin was in order.

* * *

7:43am- Sherlock hadn't realised how bloody freezing he was until the sun had begun to come out, only to hide again behind the sweeping dark clouds.

He was leaning behind a black wheelie bin. Who uses wheelie bins? After diving into his mind palace he found that many people use wheelie bins- but not large black ones. He was behind McDonald's.

He tried to quickly scramble to his feet but the ache in his ribs was having none of it, and his neck felt like someone had driven a pipe through it. God, that was a good case.

* * *

7:47am

"One egg and Bacon McMuffin …and... that's it." John stood behind the McDonald's counter peering at the milkshake machine. It was damn interesting for some reason.

Maybe if he'd looked carefully out the drive through window visible from the counter he'd have seen the consulting detective limping past. But instead he gazed at the horrible new arm chairs they'd put in the window. They wouldn't last long.

* * *

7:48am, cars were passing by as Sherlock tripped on every crack in the pavement- he peered into every window praying to God that he wouldn't see someone he knew.

It wouldn't look to clever if he was tripping on drain covers in front of Lestrade- he'd have another drugs bust and that would be bad because Mycroft would come round and laugh at him afterwards. Sherlock hated it when things escalated out of control.

It took him 10 minutes to drag himself back to Baker Street, but at no slow speed. Just because he had a few aches and pains, it didn't mean to say that his legs were any shorter.

Sherlock passed out on the sofa. Maybe he walked home a bit too fast.

* * *

John had thought originally he was meant to be at work, but when he showed up and was told he didn't work on Sundays, and since when had it been Sunday? He nearly threw his egg and bacon McMuffin against the wall.

However he was prevented from doing this by the fact that he had finished his Mc Muffin.

So not only did he not have work, but he'd eaten at McDonalds, woken up early, and unknown to both him and Sherlock, had wasted time at getting home to Sherlock.

* * *

8:12am- John stormed the flat by surprise, surging into the front gate (or door as most people would call it,) and had originally planned on destroying it inside- out. But stopped himself from doing this after pausing due to a small noise coming from the sofa.

Was Sherlock home or was his phone on?

"Sherlock?" John asked as he set his keys on the kitchen table. "Did you pick that parcel up that I asked you to get from the post office?"

There was little reply other than a small noise that sounded dangerously like a 'no'.

"Are you feeling okay?" John asked as he examined a letter sat on the kitchen counter explaining how his child was interested in attending a football club. He wondered if this meant Sherlock wanted to join a football club or if they'd received junk mail.

"You sound all…unwell." John gestured to his own face as if that would convey the meaning any better, despite Sherlock not being able to see him anyway.

However when Sherlock didn't reply John decided to check on him. It wasn't unusual for him to not reply, but seeing as he didn't sound very well, John thought it was best to check for what it was worth.

* * *

8:13

"Sherlock!" There was a kind of… noise. It sounded almost like John when he panicked. "Sherlock? Can you hear me?" Actually, it sounded a lot like John when he panicked.

Sherlock didn't bother replying. He was certain John wouldn't mind- his eye lids felt heavy and he just felt like drifting away again.

* * *

8:14,

"Sherlock- I swear, if you don't do something right now I'm calling an ambulance." Sherlock began to stir, but no enough for John's likings. He glanced at his phone.

* * *

Perhaps it was something about the way John sounded slightly angry because of his panic, or maybe it was the way he felt John's hands digging into his bruises, but Sherlock could undoubtedly feel something similar to… fear? No, fear was the wrong word.

He felt something that he knew probably wasn't good, but in an attempt to rationalise he felt his brain begin to hurt, and anything that damaged his mind palace was not worth it. A couple of years ago he may have disagreed, but that was then, and this was now.

So he just went with whatever took his minds fancy.

* * *

Sherlock began to open his eyes; his face was a mixture of fear and confusion. He didn't remember rolling onto the floor.

A quick glance at an overly keen to help John would have answered all of his questions, but that would have meant he had to be far too vigilant, which really wasn't happening. He was living in his own little bubble, with no world outside.

"Sherlock?" John sounded almost relieved, yet still slightly worried- Sherlock looked like a beaten dog, and to be fair, he was already half way there.

Sherlock began to sit up, not wanting to say anything, not quite trusting his voice, but also not quite believing John was actually there.

"Stay sat down." John said in a quiet voice as he helped Sherlock turn so his back was to the sofa. "You might have a head injury."

John began to examine Sherlock's head, which to be fair, did have a rather bad looking gash in it, but he concluded it looked much worse than it was.

"What happened?" John asked before swearing slightly at the hand marks on the back of Sherlock's neck.

There was nothing spoken for a while, both men were happy for silence to fill the room, but eventually Sherlock cleared his throat and spoke a monosyllabic single word sentence.

"Fight." John took another look at the hand shaped bruise on his throat and shook his head.

"This doesn't look like a fight." Neither John nor Sherlock spoke until John stood to fetch his medical kit. "I can't help you unless you tell me what happened."

"Yes you can."

"Yes, I can." John agreed and nodded his head. "But only your physical injuries."

"Please don't… don't do that." Sherlock said as he began to straighten his body from its slouched position. "That thing that doctors do where you go on about my feelings."

"I do happen to be a doctor." John took a step towards the bathroom when Sherlock spoke.

"…stay." He would have added a 'please' but he felt stupid enough asking for John to say. "Sorry, no, you can…" He tried to take everything back that he had said but for some reason the words had stopped working for him and for a moment, everything stood still.

And then John Watson was sat next to him.

* * *

It wasn't long before Sherlock began to slip off to sleep against John's shoulder having slowly slipped there from his sitting position. Under any other circumstances, John would have smiled, but considering the injured and scared consulting detective's state, he didn't feel much like smiling.

John looked up and stared at nothing in particular- his mind slowly drifted from one thought to another and slowly faded away until his thoughts were too dilute to be meaningful.

Just before he slipped off the edge of consciousness he remembered something.

"Sherlock?" He attempted to wake Sherlock. Neither were both fully asleep though. "Sherlock, don't go to sleep." He turned his body so Sherlock was left to support himself. His now open eyes began to dart around, looking for danger. "Stay awake."

Sherlock made some angry noises before turning to lay his head against the sofa and his knees were to his chest. He closed his eyes again.

"Sherlock, you've got a head injury, possibly a concussion, it's a miracle you're not in hospital right now. Don't. Go. To. Sleep."

Sherlock blinked his eyes open, trying to hold them wide but failing. "I want to sleep." He whispered.

"I know. So do I." John continued, "But we both know what could happen."

"'s not fair." Sherlock slurred slightly.

"I know." John replied as he stood to get his medical kit that he was unable to retrieve last time. "I'll just be gone a second."

Sherlock looked at him- his face unreadable to even John, who knew the man so well.

* * *

9:02- John returned with a white high density polyethylene freezer tray. He took it from the freezer to put all of his doctor-y supplies in it. This meant they were missing a tray in the freezer.

He went about cleaning small cuts on Sherlock's head- trying to hide from the fact that Sherlock had possible broken ribs and a concussion.

Sherlock pulled away and looked at John. He had been okay with John cleaning the cuts in theory, but once he'd started it didn't seem like such a good idea, apparently.

"Don't touch me." He said in more of an annoyed voice then a scared voice, which was in some ways relieving to the ex-army doctor.

"You'll get infected and then guess where you'll have to go."

* * *

Sherlock really hated John poking and prodding at his face and neck. He could feel John literally breathing down his throat.

-_stood so close he could feel the attackers breath on his face, smell his minty breath. It didn't fit the situation; people don't assess minty breath with muggings. _

_"Shut up." The man said to Sherlock. He really didn't recall saying anything, and if he didn't remember then in all likely hood he probably hadn't. Which could have meant a lot of things, all of them bad._

_He could still feel his breath on his face- a horrible reminder of the close proximity of them both. Sherlock had the intense urge just to punch him round the face once- as many people in London would say, shit happens._

_And that was why Sherlock might have given him a tiny, minor, insignificant push._

After just a brief second of thinking about the consequences of said pushing action, Sherlock decided to speak, just to stop John worrying so much, but also to help remind himself that he actually there, in 221B, not in some alley or behind McDonalds.

"Just the… big one." Sherlock pointed to the gash in his hair line which had barely finished leaking blood. Which was okay, because head wounds tend to bleed more than they should simply because of the dynamics of the- no, irrelevant.

John nodded in understanding.

* * *

7:12- "Are you going to tell Mycroft?" John asked like a child asking a sibling if they'd 'tell mummy?'

"Would you tell Mycroft?"

"I guessed that answered my question." John replied, trying to make the conversation as light and relaxing as possible whilst he tended to Sherlock's wounds.

Sherlock suddenly pulled away and made a pained noise. "Be careful." He said as he lifted a spindly hand up to his forehead and touched the gash, pulling his hand away to reveal traces of dried blood.

"I didn't touch you." John looked worried.

Sherlock decided it best not to reply- John was onto him that he was a nut job.

On the other hand, John was completely lost as to what to do. With any other normal person he could just treat them normally, he wouldn't feel like he was walking on egg shells. But Sherlock, as brilliant and as wonderful as he was, was very unpredictable.

Like that first time you drop Lithium in water in year 7. You don't see it coming, such a simple action that really means nothing then… you create a chemical reaction.

"Do you know who-"

"No."

"Well what did he loo-"

"Like a silhouette of a person with a hood on." Sherlock interrupted again. "And sounded like a man. And his punches certainly lived up to the stereotypical expectation that they're supposed to."

"I'm sorry." John said; wondering what else to say. What do you say? He wasn't used to that sort of attack. He was used to men in Afghanistan being attacked in a different way entirely.

"For what?" Sherlock asked. John really hated it when people did that. "Saying things just for the sake of saying things is useless. They're not even your own words- how many people before you have said just that thing in just this situation?"

John decided not to get offended. Sherlock was bound to be hurtful. It was the way he coped.

"I wished this hadn't happened then."

"So do I." Sherlock replied.

"What did they take?"

"Nothing." Sherlock replied. "I think that's what angered them. I had nothing on me."

"Could have taken you're coat." John tried to joke, but realised how unfunny what he'd said was after he'd said it.

"Too uncommon- too hard to sell, and they were obviously too stupid to realise they could actually sell my coat for real money."

"We could call Lestrade." John said as he finished dealing with the wound on Sherlock's head; leaning back to admire his handiwork.

"No."

"Can I see your ribs? I need to check if they're broken." John placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder as if asking him to turn to face him more, which really didn't seem to go down well.

* * *

A/N- Sorry about the late update D: I was busy… Next chapter, which I'm already writing, will be the second part of this, so that's where all the main comforting and fluff will come in. Also, I'm midway through rewriting last chapter. I reread it and it was awful, so I decided… yeah.

Thanks so much to everyone for reviewing, favourite-ing, adding to their alerts, reading etc. :D


	6. Yellow part 2

A/N- Thank you so, so much for everyone who has reviewed/ read/ done anything, that is super, super cool.

Okay, sorry for the late update- I suddenly felt reckless and irresponsible and went through an impulsive stage. All I can say can be described in this simple sentence that Lord knows, I didn't write myself, but should have done. "I was happy in the haze of a drunken hour…but heaven knows I'm miserable now."

* * *

It was ridiculous. Really stupid, the stupidity of someone ordinary.

All it was, was John's hand on his shoulder, probably made to feel like it hit harder because John's finger tips dug into a nasty looking bruise, and then Sherlock was super sensitive. (He liked the way his mind rationalised every little thing.)

But for a moment, he was back _there._

_He couldn't quite make out exactly what this person said to him, but decided that it consisted of a string of swear words. A hand landed on his shoulder, pushing him down to the floor before he was kicked in the shins and fell completely where he was greeted with a kick to the stomach. Sherlock would have fought back, but at some point during their 'meeting', Sherlock had learnt it best not to do so._

_Besides, he had a plan that counted on him pretending to be a defenceless and frail old person. Just a couple of seconds longer._

"Sherlock?" John. It was John, not some creepy guy on the streets wielding weapons and beating him up like he was some sort of… person. "Sherlock- It's okay."

Sherlock said nothing and simply glared at John. He felt like an idiot. A real idiot.

"I won't touch you then, I'll-"

"No." Sherlock stopped him; John looked slightly surprised. "You can. I just..."

"I understand."

Sherlock wanted to tell John that no. No he bloody didn't. But instead he just looked at John. All of his energy seemed to have been drained from his body anyway, not helped by the fact that he hadn't even eaten yet that day.

"It helps to tell people."

"It helps _some _people." Sherlock corrected John. "Why do you want to know so badly what happened?"

"This isn't about me." John replied. They both looked at each other, as if waiting for the other to look away. Oh yes it was, Sherlock thought. "If not me then someone. Mycroft or Greg." John always seemed to be on first name basis with everyone. It was something to do with him being so damningly friendly.

Sherlock smiled. "You think I'd tell either of them?" He paused; "Mycroft would wipe out everyone fitting a vague description and Lestrade would probably… take a photo or laugh or something."

"No he wouldn't, and no he wouldn't. You know they both care."

Sherlock looked at him. He decided that if at any point he was actually going to tell John what happened, purely for the preservation of John's mental state, than he had to start soon. Very soon.

"I was just following someone, fairly nondescript." John nodded as Sherlock let go a small detail of his story. "They went down a small dead end road. I went behind a bin. And then a simple crime took place." Had the circumstances been different, John might have laughed or been annoyed at the lack of information and the way Sherlock had described being attacked, but instead he was just sad.

"Do you know why?"

"Money, phones, drugs," Sherlock spoke as John nodded. John decided that then was not the moment to question Sherlock about being mugged for the drugs that he shouldn't have had. "And they knew me." He added casually on the end, but in nearly a whisper so John would barely hear.

"They knew you?"

"I really hate repeating myself."

"Sorry."

"Please don't apologise, it makes you look like a flip flopping fool. Any alliteration was unintentional." He said as he reached around for his violin, which he was sure he had left somewhere around there.

"Flip- flopping?"

"Do you find it hard to listen to what I say or are you doing this intentionally?" John didn't reply so Sherlock took his opportunity. "Thank you for the cup of tea-" John chocked on his drink- did Sherlock just say one of the magic words? "-I'll be in my room."

He began to stand.

"Please don't go."

"I'm the victim. I can do what I want."

"You can't sleep." John said matter of factly. "You banged your head and you have a mild concussion. You'll go to sleep and then-"

"I'll might not wake up, I know. It'll be a nice change in my normal mundane routine." He paused and looked at John. "_Sherlock Holmes is sleeping!"_

"If you go to sleep right now, I'll phone Mycroft." John threatened. A small, shocked and betrayed look crossed the consulting detectives face, he looked like a child who found out they were adopted. John felt a sudden feeling of guilt. "Sorry."

"Don't be." Sherlock replied. John was almost shocked, but not quite, he himself had almost gone numb. Sherlock bloody Holmes, worlds only consulting detective, the planets weirdest, most annoying, best man, was hurting.

"Can I take a look at your… injuries." Words sounded foreign on John's tongue. Sherlock nodded slightly- it was enough though, for the army doctor.

* * *

John had fetched his medical kit and was tending to minor scrapes littered rather too liberally across Sherlock's body.

"Natural _'remedies_'? You always seemed like the type to pull out Iodine in a spray bottle." John laughed inwardly. It was Sherlock who seemed the type to pull out a halogen in a spray bottle. He chose not to question Sherlock's accusations, but instead comment on them.

"Things are only as natural as you want them to be."

"Clearly." Sherlock replied, before hissing as John began to tend to a painful cut.

"Painful?" John asked; watching as Sherlock nodded, but was clearly trying to hide signs of discomfort. "I'll be careful."

He pretended not to hear a whimper from the usually bullet proof man.

* * *

A short while later, and after prodding at Sherlock's ribs and concluding they were only slightly cracked or bruised at the worst, he stood and walked towards the bathroom to return his supplies, leaving the infamous deduct-iver to his thoughts. A dangerous thing to do.

"Do you want a cup of tea before I go to bed?"

"No." Sherlock replied as John began to come back through, looking slightly confused. He didn't want a cup of tea?

"Well, will you be okay?" John asked- not sure whether to damage Sherlock's pride by asking him whether he wanted John to help him through to his bedroom.

"Yes."

"Well… Good night." He was slightly resistant to leave Sherlock in his state, but had managed to conclude his head injury was nothing much to worry about, (not that he wouldn't be constantly checking on Sherlock.)

When Sherlock didn't reply he stood for a couple of seconds later before he turned to go to bed. He would have stayed, but what could he possibly have done to help comfort the detective? Sherlock was the type who would stay and lick his own wounds and avoid people for days until he felt strong enough to let anyone back in.

He wasn't the type to be mothered over in the front room by an ex-army doctor. John turned the lights off. The light in the hall way would have been enough to help Sherlock find his way out of the room.

"Don't go." It was barely a whisper, and had John not been listening to Sherlock's breath carefully he would have missed it. At first he wondered if he had heard right, or if it was just in his mind, but upon turning around it really didn't matter if he had just heard it, Sherlock had the face of someone who really didn't want to be alone.

Neither of them said anything as John returned to the sofa where Sherlock was sat huddled in on himself, nor did they speak when John sat down and pulled Sherlock into a hug.

Sherlock began to tremor, and as John soon found out, it was caused by Sherlock sobbing silently. Both men sat silently on the sofa, lit only by the hallway light. The unspoken words spoke plenty as the both drifted off to sleep.

By the morning, nothing was forgotten, but nothing was said either. Nothing more arose from the incident. Just what Sherlock had wanted.

* * *

John had put the memories into a disused corner at the back of his mind- it wasn't until Sherlock reached for his phone that his sleeve rode up arm to reveal yellow discolouration that his thoughts centred around the 'incident'.

His mind kept wondering back over what if's, and horrible scenarios of everything happening again, and psychological effects- things circling in his brain, spirals of sickening thoughts.

A quick phone call to Mycroft however, set his mind at ease.

* * *

A/N- THIS IS NOT THE LAST CHAPTER (of red, blue, green, yellow,) BUT IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN! And thanks again for any reviews, favourites, alerts or anything else. If you're reading this, you're so awesome you deserve a spoon of nutella. Merry Christmas!


	7. Shiny

A/N- I know that shiny isn't a colour, but I never planned for this chapter to even exist, so kill me. Actually, don't. It's Christmas time. Kill me tomorrow once the novelty of my Mexican pointy boots has worn off. Again, thank you so so SO much for reviewing, favorite-ing, alert-ing, reading, verbing!

* * *

_Chop. Chop… Chop…_

"Sherlock?" _Chop_. John tried again. "Sherlock- what're you doing?" John didn't like the sound of his best global knife being used.

"Cooking." Came the mumbled and slightly muffled reply from the kitchen. John briefly contemplated asking exactly what, but decided he really didn't want to know, especially if it involved chopping. He didn't want to be put off his mince pie.

_Chop. _

John did have to admit that he was mildly curious. Whilst Sherlock was always hacking away and dissolving things, the smell of mincemeat did make him curious. Oh god, he hoped it was mincemeat and not- no, don't think about it.

"Should I order something for dinner?" Was John's subtle way of asking if Sherlock was actually cooking real food or not- as opposed to fake food.

"No." That could have meant a number of things, though John mainly had two concerns: Was Sherlock saying no because he was mid case and didn't care if John starved? And _if _he was actually cooking food, would John have to eat it?

The silence that washed over the room only to be punctuated by brief and dangerous sounding chopping noises gave the room that kind of atmosphere that could only be replicated by sitting in the corner of a silent horror movie.

It was therapeutic, in a way.

"What're you cooking?" John finally decided to ask. He had tried to see, but the position of the chair in relation to the kitchen made it impossible.

"Food."

_Chop… Chop… Chop… Scrape… _

_…Chop._

John wondered precisely how much food Sherlock was making when the sound of a carrot peeler hard at work echoed powerfully through the room. Eventually it all got too much for John, who was worried about the boiling noise coming from the stove- he stood and headed towards the kitchen.

"Don't ruin it." Sherlock made John jump out of his skin by rounding the corner, knife in hand, to prevent him coming a step closer. "Honestly, you say I'm impatient when you can't even help yourself but to yoyo through the rooms to satisfy your curiosity."

"I'm not yo-yoing."

"You're not now." Sherlock then made a rather aggressive twisting motion with the knife, arguably accidently, and then turned and swished back into the kitchen, his dressing gown almost billowing behind him giving a sinister effect.

"What're you cooking,_ exactly_?" John asked; more careful with his wording.

"Well, it's not an exact science, but round about… food."

No one was 100% sure if Sherlock was joking or if it was only approximately food. 2 parts food to 1 part… not food. It was sure to not end well.

* * *

Sherlock had been slaving over the stove and oven for the past half hour, every now and then turning back to the chopping board and grossly mutilating another poor vegetable.

Until one of the chops made a rather sickening noise and Sherlock's breath changed from focused and slightly calm to 'remember to breath'.

"Sherlock? Are you okay in there?"

"…Yes." Sherlock replied in a semi forced voice.

"Are you sure? Do you want me to come throu-"

"No."

John had put his newspaper to one side. It was boring anyway- most of it was either about buying more double glazing, getting his tummy slim, or what the local primary schools been doing for charity.

"I can help… cook." He had wanted to choose his words carefully, but no other words came to mind. "Or make drinks?"

Sherlock didn't reply, and soon John just heard a tap running.

John stood carefully and silent on his feet and began to glide silently towards the kitchen like a Watson of Death- careful not to make Sherlock suspicious of his approach. He knew it was pointless, Sherlock could see through walls and his super hearing can hear John a mile away.

However, when he peered around the corner to see said super human, he found him with his back to him, hand in the sink. He was probably just washing a vegetable, or maybe he'd burnt whatever he was cooking. About to turn back; his eyes spotted something.

He focused in on the pre spoken something.

It was red and shiny. John Watson was a man of many things, and one of those things included him being a doctor who served in the army- he knew what blood looked like.

"Sherlock?" He asked, leaving his hiding place.

Sherlock turned around with a wide eye of someone who had been caught doing something that they shouldn't have been doing, thought it was subtle in a way that only John could notice it. This caused him to wonder if it had really been there or not.

"What-"

"I'm washing some beetroot off my hand."

"Beetroot isn't that colour, and it doesn't come from under your skin." John pointed out.

"It's not."

John stood next to the sink, looking at the extent of the damage. It wasn't too bad, he decided, it looked worse than it was. Actually, it looked much worse than it was, to the extent where John couldn't help but stare at it for a second, it had some sort of morbid novelty about it, did Sherlock's thumb.

Along the top of Sherlock's thumb there was a long strip that could be described as missing.

"Go away."

"I'm a doctor. It doesn't make much sense for me to go away, now of all times."

"It makes perfect sense to me. I've had much worse injuries then this; I really don't need any help."

"Then let me help, for my sake." Before Sherlock could argue further, John had whipped a first aid kit out of seemingly nowhere and was opening up sterile wipes and large plasters, along with other painful looking things, that, to Sherlock, really didn't seem like a good idea.

Sherlock was made to remove his hand from the piercingly cold water, it then felt as though John was needlessly poking at it, until he looked to find his thumb looked more like Michelin man then anything else, and that John was looking rather proudly at his work.

" Wouldn't leaving it uncovered have helped it to heal?"

"No according to all my years studying to be a doctor." John replied. No one said anything, letting noiseless peace wash over the room.

"Thank you." Sherlock spoke barely above a whisper. It wasn't often he remembered his manners.

"I'm a doctor, it's my job."

"I'm not a patient." Sherlock argued. "And it wasn't even bad."

"But it was painful." John added. John finally turned to look at what Sherlock had even been cooking. "Goulash?"

"Christmas goulash."

* * *

! Merry Christmas!


	8. Frosty

Red, blue, green, yellow - Chapter 8, Frosty

* * *

"Sherlock's shining a torch in my face." Anderson whined like an annoying child.

"I'm checking for marks." Sherlock defended himself. When Sherlock didn't stop shining said torch in said face, Anderson was forced to retaliate with a threat.

"I'll shine a laser in your eye."

"I'll shine a firework in your face." Sherlock retaliated. Anderson opened his mouth and John was forced to step in.

"I'll shine a volcano in both of your faces if you don't stop it." It was somewhat uncharacteristically violent, particularly for the kind, harmless, reliable army doctor. However, it worked for the duo; they shut up and turned away.

Lestrade, who had been observing the scene in awe, decided he had a lot to learn from the wise blogger before him.

"Anything?" He asked to try and break the suffocating silence- which was filled only with the now slightly pompous waves being emitted from none other than Dr John H. Watson- smug because he managed to metaphorically disarm a bomb.

"Yes." Sherlock replied, but said no more as he examined the body that lay dead before him. They were stood in what John would describe later as a 'cave with no lid'. Sherlock would then attempt to correct him, only to find he'd deleted the name of the previously spoken cave with no lid.

Lestrade nodded; waiting for Sherlock to elaborate. When no such elaboration began, he nodded some more, before finally giving up and asking him: "And what have you found?"

"I've found that Donovan has been sucking on-"

"Case related! Please."

"The body did not die here. It wasn't dragged here either, but there are animal bites on them, it had to be carried. But if an animal was going to eat them and take the blame, why bother moving them? They must have been somewhere they weren't supposed to be- or whoever killed them didn't want to draw attention, but then again- Oh. Oh yes, that is good."

Sherlock then jumped around the cave with no lid observing every little tiny detail.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade asked with his usual mixture of enquiry laced with worry that Sherlock had lost the little sanity he had left.

"I told you he's a schizo." Anderson said from his place next to the detective inspector.

"Anderson, please learn when to say things in the correct context and fully understand the definition, or just don't bother at all."

John began to nod unknowingly before he realised what he was doing.

"The killer was where they were supposed to be, as was the victim. It was the animal! The animal shouldn't have been there!"

Lestrade found himself wondering why exactly he'd allowed what his superiors described as an 'amateur detective' to help him _again_. He should have known Sherlock's mental wellbeing was on borrowed time.

"Oh good, we can just interview every dog in London, ask where they were on the night of Friday the 27th." Anderson said.

John was waiting for Mycroft's voice to inform him that sarcasm was the lowest form of wit. He wouldn't put it past him; he always seemed to be watching everything, everywhere, _always._

Sherlock then looked at the rather unconvincing 'dog' bites- he had doubts over their origins, dog's teeth aren't as remarkably similar to cats.

"Judging by the mark on your neck, I know where _you_ were on the 27th, now we just have to question the rest of the dogs in London." Sherlock turned to Lestrade. "Start by looking at all the missing animal records from the past month. Whoever's behind this couldn't have been looking after whatever did this too long judging by the simple mistakes-" He turned and gestured towards the body, "-they've made thus far."

"A month? In what area?" Lestrade asked as Sherlock began to stalk away, but was stopped by Lestrade who stood in front of him, successfully but temporarily blocking his exit. "Even if we find a shark went missing from London zoo yesterday, it tells us nothing."

"No." Sherlock agreed. "Except where the animal came from, what animal they have, how many they took, their likely habitat, size, noise, what to look out for and who the suspects are. Amongst other things."

And with that Sherlock disappeared in a flash of brilliance, closely followed by a slightly confused looking John Watson. The unspoken agreement between John and Lestrade is that they'd keep each other updated because Sherlock wouldn't.

* * *

6 hours later and Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. John was slightly peeved. He'd spent an hour painstakingly stuffing spinach and ricotta into stupidly small cannelloni tubes just to please Sherlock, who didn't like mincemeat because there was a possibility of gristle, which, _understandably, _slows his thinking time.

To: Sherlock

Message: _Where are you? JW_

After half an hour he still had no response.

When he tried to re send the message, he got an automatic message back saying that the phone was either out of distance or unavailable.

What was that supposed to mean?

He swore slightly under his breath. Can you freeze cannelloni?

* * *

Sherlock shivered violently as he recounted earlier events in his mind.

The animal was obviously large- one does not simply have a seven inch jaw and a body of a Yorkshire terrier.

Unless a dachshund with an abnormally large head is plaguing the city. No, he needed to look outside London, which led him, naturally, to some woods just outside London. A healthy 45 minute walk from Uxbridge.

Reports of alien activity had made it an obvious starting point.

How was he supposed to know there would be someone there who was less than pleased to see a detective poking his nose into a cage full of stolen exotic animals?

And how should he know that he would be pushed into an icy river and then they'd run?

* * *

The teleshopping was in full swing when he heard movement at the front door downstairs. He thought it was Mrs Hudson at first, every movement seemed to sound sluggish. But had second thoughts when he heard the footsteps.

An aging woman with a hip problem didn't sound like that. But then it didn't sound much like Sherlock either- too slow and… curse his limited vocabulary! Almost frail, but that was the wrong word.

"Mrs Hudson?" He called out, only for Sherlock to grunt a reply. Oh. It was _him. _The same _him_ who didn't bother bringing John along to help solve the case _and _didn't eat his cannelloni.

John didn't bother to say anything else- not even a friendly hello. He waited for Sherlock to complete the journey up the stairs so John could be very cold towards him.

However, when the journey up the stairs ended in several sickening crunches and loud thuds against the wooden floor at the bottom, John forgot everything and was on his toes.

* * *

The world was spinning, his genius mind was struggling to make sense of everything and for some god damn reason the floor kept falling out from underneath him.

He was shivering, but he wasn't cold. Or he didn't think he was cold. He was cold earlier, but now he felt kind of warm. It took several seconds to form a diagnosis due to his mind having frozen over and being reduced to a hypothermic jelly.

Was that a new coat hook on the wall? It went nicely with the wall paper, better than the old one. He looked at it closely. John put it up for Mrs Hudson.

Maybe he could hang his coat on it. He struggled with the buttons before giving up. The perils of buttons slightly too big for the button holes had never affected him to this degree before, he better store that information.

Why was the floor so close to the back of his head?

* * *

"Sherlock?" John asked as he jumped out from behind the door to their flat, peering down the stairs with caution.

He would have gasped at what he saw had he not worked in the army as a doctor- it tends to do things to people. Not that his heart wasn't pumping at full speed, like it had under the Afghanistan heat working over a dying soldier.

When he heard gun shots he decided he really shouldn't compare the situations. He had to calm down.

He tumbled to the bottom of the stairs, looking at his bastard friend.

He lay twisted slightly from his fall on his back, staring upwards at a hook with the same thoughtful look he gave pigeons when he thought no one was looking.

"Jesus, what happened?" John asked as he knelt beside the soaking wet detective who looked like he was about to form icicles skin. "Sherlock? Can you hear me?" He asked as he began to take a pulse.

Sherlock's head lulled a bit to the side before he sat up drowsily and looked at John with dilated pupils.

"J-ohn?" He slurred.

"Shh, Sherlock, stay still." John said as he helped Sherlock against the wall. His breathing was worryingly shallow and slow- and he was shivering so violently it looked like he was about to explode from built up anger or something.

He didn't look very angry, John decided as he peered into Sherlock's eyes. He suddenly had a very good diagnosis, when Sherlock began to speak.

"H-hy-othermia." He practically whispered. "M-moderate." He slurred as if he had been drugged _again._

"Severe if we don't get you out those clothes." John said as he gestured to Sherlock's water logged clothes, saturated with water _and _coldness.

"'p stairs." Sherlock mumbled as his eyes blinked shut languidly. Oh shit. "M-z Hudson…" His head rolled around as his only weakly attached to his body.

John began to stand, dragging Sherlock slightly upwards to help.

He had intended on phoning an ambulance, but being a doctor he felt he had a good enough chance at helping Sherlock, who didn't seem to be in too severe a condition.

Besides, the self-proclaimed sociopath before him would hate him if he took him to hospital.

"Alright, come on… Careful." John said as he helped Sherlock to stand. Mrs Hudson must have been sleeping to not come out and offer them both a cup of tea.

Sherlock found himself unable to support his weight atop his chicken legs, he was held up almost entirely by John.

John managed to drag Sherlock up the stairs almost single handedly. Sherlock tried to say many incomprehensible things as they sloped up the stairs, John being careful not to trip.

By the time they reached the top John was out of breath and tired, and Sherlock hadn't broken a sweat. It might have been good if he had.

John immediately began to unbutton Sherlock's coat, wincing under the weight of it as he dragged it off his friend's shoulders. No wonder Sherlock fell down the stairs.

Underneath Sherlock's clothes were completely stuck to him and felt as though they'd been in the fridge, or freezer. Or like they'd fallen into a river in the middle of the night just outside London during winter.

John's now icy fingers began to struggle with Sherlock's shirt buttons.

"T-turn heatin'- on."

"It is on." John replied.

"'t's cold." Sherlock slurred as he was led over to the sofa where John took off Sherlock's trousers.

Once Sherlock had been stripped down to his underwear he was forced to sit down whilst John ran around the flat collecting blankets and duvets to slowly mummify the consulting detective.

John grabbed a pair of socks off the table, a hat and an extra blanket.

John quickly slipped the hat over the top of Sherlock's messy curls. He looked rather strange, he decided, with his unruly curls ruled.

"Foot." John ordered. There was some wriggling under the covers until a trembling foot poked out the covers. John began to slip a sock over Sherlock's foot when he began to protest.

"Please, Sherlock." John begged slightly. He didn't want Sherlock losing a toe or something dreadful to frost bite or the likes.

Eventually, Sherlock looked like a massive bee hive curled up on the sofa. John admired his handiwork. He offered Sherlock tea, but Sherlock refused.

After a while Sherlock still looked pasty and was suffering still from hypoventilation.

He was close to phoning Mycroft for an ambulance when an idea struck him.

Before he knew it, he was pushing back the covers and slipping in beside Sherlock. He hadn't anticipated how damningly awkward it would be.

Sherlock lay half-conscious shivering and struggling to breath and he was worrying about his manly pride? He pushed everything aside and wrapped an artless arm around his friend, shivering at how cold he was.

Sherlock suddenly clung to him like he was a magnet, shuffling closer until he could leech entirely off John's body heat.

"T-thank you." Sherlock whispered.

"Shhh…" John replied, not wanting Sherlock to use up any more energy. How the bloody hell did he manage to get home? He was genius if he managed to get home in that unaware state.

Sherlock snuggled slightly closer.

John was in no doubt that he would be in trouble with Sherlock when the consulting annoyance was more aware, but decided to make the best of what he had.

* * *

A/N- Hate it? Like it? Thanks every one for reviewing so, so much! 3 (And reading, alerting, favouriting, stumbling across this random web page.)

This could be the last chapter unless anyone has any ideas or requests for the next chapter. I'm out. Though to be fair, this was supposed to finish when it got to 'Yellow'. I think this whole thing when slightly downhill more and more from the beginning, so… yeah.

THANKS! :D


End file.
